Ivory Nation

by Andy Maslen

  A young woman in a white jacket and enormous gold hoop earrings came towards the table. She was smiling.

  ‘Excuse me, is anyone using this chair?’ she asked, laying a hand on the back of one of the two others at the table.

  Gabriel smiled back.

  ‘Not that one, but leave me the other.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘thanks.’

  She dragged the chair over to another table. As she moved out of his eye line he saw a new patron enter the bar and felt the familiar twinge in his gut. Showtime.

  The man stood six foot six minimum. Broad shoulders and a narrow waist said ‘bodybuilder’. His blonde hair was cut short in a military buzzcut and his lowering brow gave him a simian appearance. A white shirt clung to his massive pectoral muscles, its rolled-up sleeves revealing thick forearms fuzzed with reddish-blonde hair.

  Gabriel watched him scanning the bar. Prepared himself for the conversation that would take him closer to whoever had murdered the Paras.

  A scream to his right jerked his head round. The woman who’d asked to take the chair had jumped to her feet and was running across the bar towards the gorilla. His face lit up with a dazzling smile and as she arrived he held his arms wide. She leaped at him and he caught her, lifting her up so that she could wrap her legs round him.

  They kissed energetically, then he set her down and she led him, beaming, to the group of people at her table,

  ‘Guys, this is Marco,’ she said, to smiles from her friends. ‘The man I’m going to marry.’

  Handshakes, fist-bumps, kisses on cheeks, then the group settled down. Gabriel shook his head, smiling to himself and took another sip of his wine while tuning out their excitable conversation.

  ‘Do you think she’ll wear ivory on her big day?’ a quiet voice enquired.

  Gabriel turned round.

  A man stood beside him, about half the size of the bridegroom-to-be, an open expression on his tanned face.

  Gabriel cursed inwardly for allowing himself to be blindsided so easily. Without a pre-arranged password or code phrase he’d have to rely on subtler means of establishing the bona fides of his contact.

  ‘I suppose she might. Though white’s more traditional.’

  Non-committal. No offer to drag up a seat, which would be odd if the stranger was only passing the time of day.

  ‘Passing through?’ the man said, his dark eyes focusing on Gabriel as a bird might observe an insect.

  ‘Yes. I was in Laos a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Lovely country.’

  ‘Very.’

  The stranger gestured at the remaining spare chair.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Gabriel nodded.

  ‘Please.’

  The stranger signalled a passing waitress. She arrived seconds later.

  ‘A glass of wine please. What is that?’ he asked Gabriel.

  ‘Chenin blanc. The Stellenrust 2015.’

  ‘Excellent choice. I’ll have the same.’

  Once the waitress had departed, the stranger held out a hand.

  ‘Oscar Coetzee.’

  ‘Alec Jensen.’

  They shook. The little man’s grip was stronger than his size suggested.

  Coetzee pulled out a phone, swiped the screen then held it out, the screen towards Gabriel.

  ‘The light was different in Vientiane to here. Greener. It makes you look a little, forgive me, sickly,’ he said.

  Gabriel nodded.

  ‘Stinking country was full of gooks anyway. I was glad to get away,’ he said, as if uttering racist sentiments in public was commonplace in the rainbow nation. The waitress returned with a glass of wine

  Coetzee held it aloft.

  ‘Gesondheid!’ It came out Guh-sont-hate.

  ‘Cheers!’

  They clinked rims. Coetzee took a mouthful of the wine and swirled it round his mouth before swallowing.

  ‘Man, that’s good. But there are better South Africa wines, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure there are. Do you have connections in the winemaking business?’

  ‘We make it where I come from. The Northern Cape. No reds, though.’ He paused. ‘Only whites.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Gabriel said. ‘I prefer whites.’

  ‘Tell me, Alec, what brings you to South Africa?’

  ‘Tourism. I’ve heard it’s a great country.’

  Coetzee nodded.

  ‘Used to be much better. Until they took over and fucked it up,’ he added in a quieter voice.

  ‘Agreed. Listen,’ Gabriel wiped a slick of sweat from his top lip, ‘I have some associates back in England who share your views on that particular subject. They want to extend a hand of friendship. To you and,’ he paused, then dropped his own voice, ‘the BVR.’

  Coetzee frowned.

  ‘Sorry, the who?’

  ‘Oh, right, I get it,’ Gabriel said, dropping his right eyelid in the most fractional of winks. He leaned right across the table so he was nose-to-nose with Coetzee. ‘Never mind. As I said, my associates and I want to show solidarity with our white brothers and sisters. It’s part of a global movement we’re spearheading. I’m sure you can imagine its core beliefs.’

  Coetzee smiled politely as if he’d been confronted with someone speaking a foreign language. But Gabriel could see it for what it was. A blind, in case anyone who shouldn’t be was listening in. Smart, he had to admit.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Alec. But as I said, you clearly know your wines. Why don’t you come up North and I’ll give you a tour around our winery? I think you’ll be impressed.’

  Gabriel smiled.

  ‘I would like that very much. Very much indeed. When?’

  ‘How about the day after tomorrow?’

  ‘Works for me.’

  ‘Where are you staying? I’ll come and pick you up.’

  ‘The Marriott on De Korte Street.’

  ‘Shall we say 8.00 a.m.?’

  ‘Perfect. Just one thing. I’m travelling with a companion. Protection, you might call it. My job is purely administrative, you see, and she, well, she is more experienced in the,’ he rubbed his chin, ‘more dramatic aspects of my work.’

  Coetzee shook his head.

  ‘Sorry. No friends, no companions, no bodyguards. You alone or forget it.’

  Gabriel pretended to hesitate. Inwardly he was glad Eli was off the table. He knew it was wrong, some kind of long-dormant chivalry, but all of a sudden he didn’t want to put her in further danger.

  He nodded after what he judged was a suitable interval.

  ‘Fine. No companion.’

  Gabriel found Eli in the hotel bar. She’d put on a simple white cotton dress that showed off her olive skin, tanned now to a soft honey colour. And she’d put her hair up, revealing turquoise earrings that matched a string of beads round her throat. As he walked in, Gabriel noticed that several of the men present, and a couple of the women, were casting glances in her direction. He smiled. She’s mine, though.

  She kissed him.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Like a charm. We made a date for the day after tomorrow. He’s taking me up country. Presumably to vet me and see whether my “associates” and I will be of use to the cause.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Great! So when do we set off?’

  ‘It’s not “we”. It’s me. I said I was travelling with protection but he said it was an invitation for one.’

  Eli shook her head.

  ‘That’s a really bad idea, Gabe. You don’t know what you’re walking into. Listen,’ she said, raising her voice, so that a few of the nearer patrons turned their heads. ‘Listen,’ she repeated, quieter, ‘these people, they’re dangerous. What if they suspect you’re a journalist or a government spy? They’ll torture you or kill you. It’s what I’d do.’

  He moved closer to her, breathing in her perfume.

  ‘One, yes I do know what I’m walking into. What I’ve walked into
a hundred times before. And I’ve always walked out again. Two, I know they’re dangerous. That’s why we’re here. But I’m dangerous, too. And three, they may well be suspicious. I’d be worried if they weren’t. But I don’t think they’ll go for the nuclear option. Not if I show them a gesture of goodwill first.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m going to talk to Don. Have John wire me some money. I’ll take it with me as a love gift. We know they need cash. It’ll work, El, believe me.’

  Eli’s lips parted. He waited for her to object. But she said nothing. Just leaned forward and kissed him.

  ‘Do what you have to do then come back to me. That’s an order.’

  After a late dinner, Gabriel and Eli sat outside under a full moon, sipping brandies. He looked up at the stars, billions of pinpricks in a black velvet blanket. Were their stars meant to align? Did Eli see things the same way he did? What if she decided to leave the UK anyway, despite the new British passport? Would he follow her?

  He wanted to say yes, wanted to be so sure he would leave behind the country he loved. The job, too. Though he was sure he could find a role in Israel that would give him the same kind of satisfaction as working for The Department.

  And yet.

  Would it be that easy? Eli felt she wanted to return home. But England was his home. He wanted to stay, he realised. Stay and fight. Tammerlane couldn’t last for ever, could he? He’d fuck it up like extremists always did, and then the voters would kick him out in four years’ time.

  He had a flash of insight. A nightmarish vision. Tammerlane suspending political ‘business as usual’ in the light of some new threat. Declaring a state of emergency. Instituting ‘special measures’. Government spokesmen reassuring querulous journalists that normal service would be resumed as soon as was practicable, all the while removing obstacles to their boss remaining in power.

  Was that possible? Really? In the UK? It had happened in Africa, hadn’t it? More than once. Strongmen elected by an enthusiastic populace who then found they enjoyed holding the reins of power so much they felt it was only right they should tighten their grip.

  ‘Penny for them.’

  ‘Huh?’

  He turned. Eli was looking at him with a half-smile.

  ‘Where did you go? I asked you the same question three times. You just zoned out.’

  Gabriel sighed.

  ‘I was thinking about home.’

  ‘Aldeburgh, you mean?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Britain. Tammerlane worries me.’

  ‘Worries? Is that all. Because he scares the shit out of me.’

  ‘What were you asking?’

  ‘I think I should get back. If you’re making the trip to see the BVR leadership alone, there’s nothing for me to do here. I can’t just sit around sunbathing. I’ll see what Don has for me.’

  Gabriel nodded, and finished his brandy.

  ‘Probably best. You can always fly back.’

  She tipped the snifter to her lips and drained the last few drops. She stood and took his hand.

  ‘In that case, I need you upstairs, right now.’

  43

  Two days later

  With Eli gone, Gabriel found he was better able to concentrate. His first stop the following day had been a luggage store, where he bought a cheap aluminium-look attaché case. An hour later, he emerged from the Western Union office on Hanover Street swinging the now-heavier case by his left thigh.

  He wasn’t bothered about his lack of hardware. As a self-declared ‘admin’ type, it would be out of character to carry anything more dangerous than a pocket calculator. His hands and feet were deadly enough until he could get his hands on something with an edge, a point or a trigger.

  But he did want different clothes. A trip to a sporting goods outlet furnished him with a couple of pairs of khaki cargo pants, soft cotton shirts and a tough but lightweight jacket. A thirty-litre daypack, a water bottle, a first aid kit, a wide-brimmed bush hat and a pair of leather hiking boots rounded off the deal, delighting the salesgirl in the store who smiled broadly as she rang his items up on the till.

  ‘Going camping?’ she asked.

  Gabriel nodded. ‘Hunting trip.’

  ‘Great! Hope you do OK.’

  Gabriel smiled.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I will.’

  Now he was waiting in the Marriott’s reception, reclining in an armchair and waiting for Coetzee. Between his feet sat the daysack, stuffed with a spare outfit and some extra underwear and socks. The attaché case sat on his knees. He’d arranged to collect the rest of his luggage from the hotel on his return to Johannesburg.

  He checked his watch: 7.55 a.m. The lobby was full of people, but then he saw Coetzee, sliding between knots of executives, tourists and hotel staff.

  He smiled and held out his hand. Placing the attaché case beside him, Gabriel stood and they shook.

  ‘Ready to go, Alec?’ Coetzee asked.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Coetzee gestured at the case.

  ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘Paperwork.’

  Coetzee snorted and rolled his eyes.

  ‘What are you, man, a bloody secretary?’ He laughed loudly. ‘Come on. It’s a fair drive out to the airstrip.’

  Gabriel followed Coetzee out of the lobby. A white Range Rover was parked with its back end hard up against a flowering shrub, the purple blossoms it had shorn from the branches lying in a carpet around its base. Gabriel looked at the passenger-side front wing. It looked pristine. Not a dent or a scratch. He made a show of getting muddled about which side was the driver’s, then, as he rounded the front of the SUV, fumbled his daysack and dropped it by the front tyre.

  As he bent to retrieve it, he looked closer at the trim protecting the corner of the wing. Also undented. But whereas the other trim piece was dusty, this one was gleaming. He could even see a strap of pale-blue protective film adhering to one of the edges. New, then. That’s interesting.

  He grabbed the daypack and straightened and made a ‘silly me’ gesture to Coetzee, rolling his eyes and holding his free hand to his temple like a pistol.

  ‘We drive on the left here, man. Just like the old country,’ Coetzee said in a mocking tone.

  44

  Gabriel stowed his bags on the back seat then climbed in. He inhaled the smell of about three cows’ worth of soft leather, overlaid by the pungent stink of tobacco.

  Coetzee climbed in and immediately shook a cigarette out from a packet. He lit up and sucked hard, then offered the pack to Gabriel as he released the lungful of smoke with a sigh.

  Gabriel shook his head.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘No? Fair enough. Can’t get enough of them, myself,’ Coetzee said, as he selected drive and nosed out onto the access road leading to the street.

  A black couple stepped off the kerb in front of him, wheeling their luggage to a waiting taxi.

  ‘Get out of the way, you fucking kaffirs!’ he said. Then he turned to Gabriel. ‘That’s one thing you won’t have to worry about where we’re going.’

  Gabriel smiled. ‘Good.’ Steeled himself. ‘Fucking blacks. Think they own the place.’

  ‘Yah, well they practically do,’ Coetzee said, turning right and then pushing the Range Rover hard through the traffic. ‘It won’t be long before they’re stealing white-owned farms, just like Mugabe did in Zim. And that’s not a prediction, my friend. That’s just a statement of fact.’

  Fighting down the urge to break the man’s nose with his elbow, and nausea at the language he was being forced to use, Gabriel managed to keep up his side of the race-baiting conversation as Coetzee drove northwest out of Johannesburg.

  As the smart suburban streets gave way to longer and longer stretches of unpopulated countryside, Gabriel found himself relaxing. To their right a mountain clad in thick vegetation loomed over the otherwise flat landscape, which continued, uninterrupted, for hundreds of miles.

&nb
sp; Tall pencil-shaped cypresses dotted the landscape, which, with its mix of grassland and wooded areas might just as easily have been England. England blown up to a thousand times its usual size, but still. Driving on the left reinforced the impression, which was only broken when he saw a woman with a basket balanced on her head walking by the side of the road.

  Coetzee swerved over the white line towards her. Gabriel hissed out a breath and he saw her face contort with fear as Coetzee shot past her at sixty.

  ‘Ha! Gave her a nice little shock, didn’t I?’ Coetzee crowed as he regained the left-hand carriageway.

  After another hour, Coetzee indicated left and pulled off the road onto a red-earth track. They sped along it, raising a tawny cloud that swirled in the SUV’s wake, before rolling to a stop on an expanse of graded earth that extended for half a mile in front of them.

  ‘Not exactly Heathrow, old boy, but it serves us fine, eh what?’ Coetzee said, in a terrible parody of an upper-class British accent.

  Gabriel smiled and got out, wishing, for the thousandth time that he could put a couple of rounds into Coetzee’s skull, just to shut him up. He grabbed the attaché case and his daysack.

  To their left, a small white plane waited beneath a tree with wide, spreading branches. In its shade, occupying a flimsy-looking camp chair, sat a big man in jeans, chambray shirt and a bush hat. His eyes were obscured by mirror-lensed aviator sunglasses.

  Seeing Coetzee and Gabriel, he folded the paper he was reading and dropped it to the ground. He came towards them, smiling.

  ‘This the passenger?’ he asked Coetzee.

  ‘I didn’t bring him all the way out here to wash the Cessna, if that’s what you mean!’

  This apparently passed for great wit, and the pilot guffawed, shaking his hand and then coming forward to grasp Gabriel’s right hand in an iron grip.

  ‘Name’s Brik Todd. Don’t get many Pommies out here,’ he said, pumping Gabriel’s hand and squeezing harder. ‘Too soft, I reckon,’ he added, winking at Coetzee, whose whinnying laughter set Gabriel’s teeth on edge.